Sometimes, life puts you in messy situations where you’re not sure if you’re doing the right thing or not. That’s what Na Me F— Up? is about — real Nigerians sharing the choices they’ve made, while you decide if they fucked up or not.

What should’ve been Ruth’s* (29) happiest day turned sour when a fight over her wedding dress became a battle of wills with her mother-in-law. Holding her ground cost her more than she imagined and left her wondering if she made the right choice.

Jeff* proposed to me last year, four years into our relationship, and I was thrilled at the thought of spending the rest of my life with him. He’s a great guy — calm and good-hearted. I never thought our issues would stem from his mum.

I knew Jeff was close to his mum, and I respected that, especially since he’s her only child. I met her properly for the first time shortly after the engagement. She seemed warm, but I soon noticed how vocal she was. From day one, she threw herself into wedding planning with so much excitement that it almost felt like the wedding was hers.

I realised she was domineering. For example, white weddings usually take place in the bride’s family church. But she insisted it had to be hers. She convinced my parents by saying it was where she met her late husband and where Jeff grew up. My parents weren’t thrilled, but they gave in. They’re not the type to pick a fight.

She had a friend who sold lace and insisted we buy the aso ebi there. I didn’t like any of her friend’s fabrics and even sent her a sample of what I preferred, but she dismissed it and chose what she wanted instead. Jeff’s mum went as far as picking the matching outfits for both families without consulting my parents. Even though she paid for them, it still felt like she had hijacked what should have been a joint decision.

She took full control of the planning and even assigned roles to my parents, who are much older. Though my parents grumbled, being their last child and this their final wedding to plan, they chose to let it go. Instead, they kept reminding me to be patient and focus on making a good impression. It wasn’t easy, but I obeyed them.

Getting married in her church also meant we had to attend their premarital counselling, which stretched over three months. I had planned for a July wedding, but because of their calendar, we shifted it to August. It might not seem like a big deal, but it frustrated me. The counselling itself made me uneasy. The committee asked intrusive questions, and the entire process felt stiff and judgmental. I only endured it for Jeff’s sake.

What kept me going through all the stress was the excitement of my dream wedding dress. I already had a picture in mind, contacted a top designer and paid nearly a million naira for it. The dress was ready two weeks before the wedding. It was elegantly fitted and decent. Jeff came with me for fittings and loved it. My mum also approved.

A week before the wedding, the women from the marriage committee asked to see the dress. The moment they saw it, they declared it unacceptable because it was strapless and too tight. They gave me a list of alterations, but my designer warned that making those changes would completely ruin the dress. I decided to stand my ground and told Jeff, who agreed we should go ahead as planned.

On the wedding day, just as I stepped out of the car to enter the church, the two women from the marriage committee stopped me. They pulled me aside and demanded to know why I refused to alter the dress. At first, I thought they were joking, until they said I would not be allowed into the church. According to them, the pastor would not proceed unless I fixed it as instructed.

I was furious. After all the money and effort I had put into my dress, they wanted to bar me from my own wedding? I called my mum, who tried to reason with them, but they refused to budge. They insisted I at least get a veil or jacket to cover up. When my mother-in-law arrived, she didn’t defend me. Instead, she sent someone to buy satin to patch the dress. In that moment, I stopped begging and insisted that if they wouldn’t let me in as I was, then I wasn’t going in at all.

The pastor heard what was happening, but instead of helping, he sent someone with an ultimatum. The service was meant to last until noon, and if I didn’t change my mind by then, he would leave, and no one should call him back. One hour had already passed. My mum panicked, my dad begged, and other relatives pleaded. Even Jeff came out to beg me, but I told them to beg the pastor instead.

My mother-in-law turned on Jeff in front of everyone, shouting that he had brought home a stubborn woman and asking how he planned to cope with me in marriage. I was boiling with anger and told my family I was ready to forget the church service altogether. We had already done the traditional wedding the day before, so I suggested we go straight to the reception.

When the time ran out and the pastor left, my uncle, who is also a pastor, offered to officiate at the reception venue. Jeff agreed, but his mum rejected the idea, saying it would only happen over her dead body. She stormed off, and most of her family members followed. One of Jeff’s uncles promised to calm her down and convince her to attend, so we went ahead.

We eventually had the joining at the reception, but the atmosphere was ruined. Jeff was tense and kept glancing over his shoulder, waiting for his mum. She never came. The M.C she hired didn’t show up either. Guests ate quietly, then left, and the turnout was much smaller than expected. It was nothing like the wedding I had imagined.

The event ended quickly, and we spent the rest of the day chasing relatives to plead with my mother-in-law. She agreed to see Jeff but refused to see me until the next day. When she finally did, she accused me of humiliating her, disrespecting the church, and preventing her from witnessing her only child’s wedding. She said she would only forgive me if I went to the marriage committee and her pastor to beg for their forgiveness and blessing.

It has been weeks since the wedding, and I keep putting it off with excuses. Jeff keeps reminding me that his mother won’t step into our home until I do as she asked. When I told him I can’t bring myself to beg those women who insulted me and that pastor who humiliated me on my wedding day, he said I should just do it for peace’ sake. This time, he made it clear he doesn’t support me and insists I’m only being difficult.

But I don’t see why I should keep bowing to her control. I already apologised. What more does she want?

I love Jeff, but the constant pressure makes me wonder what kind of marriage this will be. Everyone is telling me to give in, even my family. Part of me feels guilty that she missed her son’s wedding, but that was her choice. This feels like she is trying to impose herself all over again. I’m stuck between giving in to her demand or standing my ground once more.

*Names have been changed for anonymity

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When Anita* (32) moved to Lagos ten years ago, she believed staying with her aunt would be a safe, temporary step toward independence. Instead, what began as a warm, supportive relationship slowly turned suffocating, and she had to risk everything to escape.

This is Anita’s story, as told to Mofiyinfoluwa

The first thing that hit me about Lagos was yellow. Yellow buses swarmed the roads in the park, horns blaring until I felt almost assaulted by the noise. It was November 9, 2014, and the harmattan dust clung to my skin as I dragged my boxes through the chaos, searching for the kiosk where my aunt said she had parked.

When I finally spotted Aunty Uche, I almost didn’t recognise her. The last time we met was at a family gathering in Enugu when I was still a child. In person, she looked smaller than the glamorous woman from her Facebook pictures.

Even with a smile, the tired lines on her face betrayed her age, but her hands gripped the steering wheel with the confidence of someone who owned the road. She was warm as I slid in beside her, asking about home, my parents, and my year in Sokoto. For a moment, I let myself relax. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

***

I had spent my service year in Sokoto, and while it was a fun experience, I knew I couldn’t stay. The run-down primary health centre where I served drained me, and the thought of settling back in Enugu with my parents didn’t appeal either. Like most graduates with big dreams, I had my eyes set on Lagos. If I wanted to grow, a private hospital there felt like my best chance.

By the end of service, I scraped together just enough from my ₦19k allowance rent a small place. So when my parents asked about my next step, I told them Lagos.

But my mum had other plans. “My eldest sister is in Lagos,” she said. “She’s very comfortable. Why not stay with her?”

My first instinct was to refuse. I had never lived long-term with a relative, and the idea unsettled me. But my mother would not let it go. She painted glowing pictures of her sister’s life, a spacious duplex with just her and just one of her children. My dad also chimed in, reminding me how much I could learn from a retired nurse.

In the end, I gave in. Saving the money I set aside for rent sounded appealing. So, I packed almost everything from my childhood room in Enugu into two boxes and boarded a bus to Lagos.

That first month with Aunty Uche almost felt sweet. She drove me around the city in her air-conditioned car as I dropped CVs at hospitals. Whenever disappointment clouded my face, she patted my back and told me not to worry.

At home, I tried to repay her kindness. I washed her clothes, helped the maid, and worked long hours at the pharmacy her daughter Onyi* ran. At the end of the month, when she pressed ₦10k into my hand, my heart swelled with gratitude.

By January, I finally landed a job at a private hospital with a ₦50k monthly salary. At first, I thought I could keep everyone happy. After my shifts, I still forced myself to show up at Onyi’s pharmacy. But the new job was nothing like I had experienced. The hours were brutal, the protocols endless, and on most days, I ranon fumes. It became impossible to do both. So I decided I’d only go to the pharmacy on weekends.

They didn’t fight my decision but overnight, their warmth disappeared

***

I first realised the change one evening at the cybercafé where I spent most evenings filling out Masters applications. My phone rang. It was my uncle. His voice tore through the speaker, sharp and accusing.

“If it’s man you came to Lagos to follow, tell me now!”

I froze, struggling to process his words. “Uncle, what are you talking about?” I asked.

But he kept shouting. My aunt had told him I was “going all over Lagos, following men” since I started working. That my new job had changed me.

I stared at the computer screen, the cursor blinking on my half-filled application form, and felt my stomach drop. What exactly had I done wrong?

Before this job, I was their perfect errand girl. I ran the pharmacy, scrubbed and cleaned, even bought fruits on my way home. The moment I tried to build a life of my own, all that goodwill expired.

The rules of the house began to change. They’d stopped paying me even though I still spent my weekends at Onyi’s pharmacy. But that wasn’t the worst of it. One afternoon, I came home from work and found Aunty Uche seated on my bed, legs were crossed and bouncing slowly as if she had been rehearsing what to say.

“I can no longer accommodate you for free,” she announced. “The house runs on bills, and as you know, I’m retired.” She paused, then added as she rose to leave, “₦10k every month shouldn’t be too much for you to pay.”

I stood dazed, staring at the impression her body left on my bedsheet. What did she need my money for when her other children abroad sent her money every month?

Still, at the end of each month, I withdrew the cash and placed it in her hands. She took it each time without a flicker of hesitation. Even when she went on vacation to the US for two months, she instructed me to keep the payments aside until she returned.

My cousin also made life unbearable. She sneered with disdain whenever I greeted her. One morning, after a long night shift, she asked me to help fill in for someone at her pharmacy. When I told her I couldn’t go because I needed to rest, her eyes widened with shock.

“If I ever find you lying on that bed in the daytime, I’ll pour you hot water!” she screamed.

From that day, I avoided sleeping during the day. After night shifts, I curled up on the cold tiles of the floor. My bones ached every morning. The help would sometimes glance at me with pity as she swept around my curled-up body.

***

One night in August, after crawling through heavy traffic from Ikeja to Berger, I finally reached the gate close to midnight. My legs ached, and sweat glued my shirt to my back. I slid my key into the lock, only to realise the gate had been bolted from inside.

Panic set in. I dialled both my aunty and Onyi over and over, but neither picked up. When the maid finally answered, her voice was a whisper. “Madam said I shouldn’t pick your calls or open for you.”

I stood outside the compound for an extra hour, muddy from trekking part of the way, tears burning my eyes. After several desperate calls, she finally let the maid open up. Inside, I greeted Aunty Uche, trying to explain that the traffic had been so bad it made the evening news. She just hissed loudly and turned her face away.

Not long after, she demanded I hand over the house key. From that moment, every time I returned, I had to knock and wait like a visitor.

Each time, I’d call my parents in tears to vent. My dad was always furious, his voice rising over the line, but anger alone couldn’t change anything. I no longer had enough money to move out, and they simply couldn’t afford to set me up on my own.

My mum tried a softer approach, pleading with her sister to take it easy on me, but that only backfired. Aunty Uche would dismiss everything as lies, then call their brother to complain about how my mother was meddling in her home. Each time, things only grew worse. I stopped complaining altogether.

***

The breaking point came around Onyi’s birthday in October. They had planned a lavish party at an event centre not far from my hospital. I looked forward to it and even splurged on an expensive dress from a boutique. But at the last minute, a new shift landed on my schedule. When I explained, they hummed sarcastically.

That night, as music from the party floated faintly into the hospital compound, I sat in the nurses’ lounge eating bread and sardines. Out of curiosity, I texted the maid to ask how it was going.

She bluntly replied that they couldn’t stop complaining about me on the way there. One by one, she listed their complaints: that I was “cold” around them, lazed about the house, secretly watched their TV when they were out, and lied about being at work.

The next evening, after a long stretch of extra shifts, I dragged my bag into the house, exhausted. Even with what I’d heard, I didn’t expect what came next.

Onyi snatched the bag from my hand and flung it to the floor. Before I could protest, she tore through my belongings, demanding, “Where are the condoms in your bag?”

Aunty Uche sat to the side, watching quietly. I didn’t even have the strength to defend myself. They had invented a mystery man in their heads, and I was tired of sounding like a broken record denying he existed. Of course, Onyi found nothing. I simply gathered my things and went to bed.

The house no longer felt like a home. It was a cage. Every day I woke up with a knot in my chest, dreading what new accusation or insult would come.

It was the maid who finally said it out loud. One afternoon in mid-November, as we folded laundry in the backyard, she leaned close and whispered, “I can’t continue here. Too much work, too much wahala, and the money isn’t worth it.” She told me she would leave in December.

Her words struck me like a bell in my chest. If she, who was at least getting paid, could walk away, what did that mean for me working for free? Right then, I made up my mind. I had to leave too.

***

At work, I began plotting my escape. Renting a place of my own wasn’t an option. Between sending money home to my parents and siblings, and giving Aunty Uche ₦10k every month for “house expenses,” I had almost nothing left.

The hospital had accommodation reserved for house officers, but I wasn’t entitled to it. My only lifeline came from one of the doctors, who quietly agreed to let me squat in her room after I broke down and told her my story. The plan was risky. If we were caught, it could mean a query from management, maybe even losing my job.

But I was that desperate. Even fear of being discovered felt lighter than the weight of staying in that house.

So I spun a lie. One evening in early December, I sat across from my aunt and cousin with forged admission documents spread neatly in my hands.

“I got into the University of Ibadan for a Master’s program,” I announced. “Classes start in January, so I’ll need to leave this weekend.”

Their faces lit up. They clapped, showered me with congratulations, completely satisfied with the excuse. They didn’t know I had already started moving my things out.

On my final day in that house, I hugged them goodbye, took my bags and walked out through the gate without looking back.

At the hospital quarters, I pushed open the door to the tiny, stuffy room I’d be sharing and felt relief wash over me. That night, before sleep claimed me, I deleted their numbers and blocked them.

For the first time in months, I slept like a baby.

***

I thought cutting ties with Aunty Uche and my cousin would bring closure, but their memories have stayed with me. Years later, after I relocated to Canada in 2022, my mother told me how elders scolded Aunty Uche for how she treated me during a family meeting. They all agreed she went too far. She accepted and eventually apologised.

But not to me.

I swallowed the humiliation until it turned sour in my stomach, yet I never heard her say, ‘I’m sorry.’ The pain I felt was raw, as if it had just happened.

When my mother died last year, people whispered that Aunty Uche asked after my wellbeing at the burial. My father begged me to let it go and reach out to her. But all I felt was steel in my chest. To me, she was as good as a stranger.

I don’t know her,” I told him. “And I never want to.”

*Names have been changed for anonymity

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Sometimes, life puts you in messy situations where you’re not sure if you’re doing the right thing or not. That’s what Na Me F— Up? is about — real Nigerians sharing the choices they’ve made, while you decide if they fucked up or not.

This week, Demola*, 37, tells us about the father who abandoned him at birth and the family now pressuring him to forgive. When you’re done reading, you’ll get to vote: Did he fuck up, or not?

This is Demola’s predicament, as shared with Betty:

I remember my uncle from father’s side always hating me. Every time he visited — and he did so often — he wouldn’t look me in the eye or engage at all. When I tried to talk to my mum about it, she told me to ignore it. She said that some people didn’t like children because of how playful they are. I wanted to accept her explanation, but my uncle behaved very differently with my younger siblings.

When he brought us gifts, he would shove mine into my hands and send me away, but he’d sit and play with my siblings, watching them open theirs. To make me feel less left out, my dad would usually play with me when my uncle was around. I eventually accepted that my uncle simply hated me, and I hated him right back. I thought it was a bit funny because we looked like twins, but I figured that was why he didn’t like me.

I learnt why when I turned 16. I had just graduated from secondary school and was preparing to head to university. My uncle was visiting during that vacation after SS3, and my father called us to a special meeting. It was just him, my uncle — his younger brother — and me at our dining table. He finally told me the truth.

The man I grew up calling “daddy” was actually my uncle.

When he met my biological mum, she was a young woman in Lagos who had just started a small provisions business. For almost a year, he wooed her with stories of love, marriage and starting a family together. But when she told him that she was pregnant with me, he ran away to Bauchi, where his older brother lived with his wife.

Worried that something had happened to him, my mum became depressed. I was told she spent her entire pregnancy searching for my dad, refusing to believe that he would abandon her and her baby. She eventually gave birth, but passed away from birth complications.

For the first six years of my life, I was raised by my grandmother. We lived in Oshodi in Lagos state. I barely remember those times, but my adopted mum said I used to play with the street children, and my grandma was worried I would fall into bad company. One day, without notice, my grandma told me to get ready because we were travelling. She packed up all my clothes and shoes, but only took a change of clothes for herself and a fanny pack.

It was a long road trip. I remember falling asleep and waking up several times on the hot bus, only to see we were still on the expressway. I didn’t realise my grandma was taking me to Bauchi to confront my father for abandoning me and ultimately causing the death of her daughter. When she got to my uncle’s house, she asked to see my biological father, but he wasn’t there. When they told her that he was living like a nomad — hopping from home to home, squatting with extended family members — she kind of lost it.

For all the years she raised me, my grandma had always been very respectable and level-headed. But at my uncle’s place that day, something cracked. She started screaming and tearing off her clothes. I had never seen her act that way. She said she wouldn’t move a single step unless they provided my father immediately. My uncle was at work at the time, but he rushed home when they sent over a messenger.

He tried to calm her down, but she wasn’t hearing it. She opened the fanny pack on her waist and brought out a long strip of what looked like discoloured paper. She said it was my placenta, and when her daughter died after giving birth to me, she kept it and used it to place a curse on my biological father. She swore that he’d never have peace unless he took responsibility for me like he promised my late mother.

My uncle was visibly frustrated. Apparently, my biological father had a reputation for getting into complex situations and leaving the mess for him to clean up. He offered to raise me like his own since he and his wife didn’t have kids of their own. My grandma was reluctant at first, but eventually, she accepted his offer. She revealed that she had recently been diagnosed with a terminal illness and needed to know that I would be well taken care of.

My uncle reaffirmed his promise, and that’s how he adopted me. My grandma went back to Lagos the next day, but died of breast cancer a year later. We attended the funeral, but I didn’t fully understand how final death was at the time; it just seemed like an owambe to my young mind.

The information my dad gave me turned the food in my stomach into hardened concrete. My dad said that he was only letting me know because I was about to head out and become my own man. I was in shock. I looked at my “uncle,” but he couldn’t even look me in the eye. I became angry and said the only father I know is the one who had raised me and sent me to school. My “uncle” quickly agreed and said we should end the conversation there. We did, but the tension between us started to grow.

From that time, I developed a deep hatred for my biological father. I couldn’t believe that I had spent all of my youth in such close proximity to him, and he had never raised the topic or even gone out of his way to connect with me the way he did with my siblings.

My mum kept trying to use the tenets of our religion to guilt me into developing a deeper relationship with him, but I wasn’t interested at all. My biological father eventually got married and had four kids. When he visited with my half-siblings, who were also my cousins, he would tell them that I was their older brother and that they should respect me as such. I didn’t mind it; all my little cousins refer to me as their ‘ẹ́gbọ́n’ or older brother anyway. What I hated was that as I became more established, he kept wanting to be identified as my father.

When I graduated from university, I didn’t call him, but at the convocation party, he started acting upset. He said, “O kọ̀, o pọ́n mi lé bi ọmọ yẹ kí ó pón bàbá rẹ̀ lé.” (You don’t respect me like a son should respect his father.) I told him he wasn’t my father, and all hell broke loose. He called me names and said loudly at the party that nothing would change the fact that I was adopted, and that I wasn’t the real son of my parents. It ruined my day. My parents tried to intervene, but the damage was done.

I started keeping away from home if I knew he was visiting, blocked his number and stopped reaching out to him. In 2023, I started getting calls from strange numbers. Around June, I picked up one of the calls and found it was my biological father. He said one of his kids was sick and urgently needed money to buy some medicine, so I sent him the money. A few weeks later, he called again to say that he was having issues paying school fees, so I contributed some money for that too. Then, a little while later, he called me to ask for money again, but this time, I refused. He said that I was trying to run away from my responsibilities, and he wouldn’t let me. That actually made me laugh, coming from the king of running away from responsibilities.

In May 2024, I attended a wedding where many of my extended family members were present. The day before the ceremony, the Olori Ebi called everyone for a family meeting. At the meeting, after discussing how the traditional rites of the wedding would go, they started discussing my biological father and me. My biological father had gone to report my dad to the Olori Ebi for poisoning my mind against him and his children. He said that I only took care of my father’s children but never extended any kindness to his own. He told the Olori Ebi that his health was getting worse, and it was harder to take care of his family. He asked him to make my father “give him back his son” so I could help take on some of my half-siblings’ responsibilities, like school fees and other payments. Before anyone could respond, I said I would be doing no such thing, and that’s the source of our current friction.

The Situation Today

My adopted parents are on my side; they think that if my biological father wants a relationship with me, then he should beg for my forgiveness and try to build one with me. My extended family sees things differently. They think I should let bygones be bygones since I already got a stable childhood and schooling out of the situation. They say I should make peace with my biological father for the sake of keeping the family intact.

Personally, I couldn’t care less about the family staying intact. I love and care about the parents who raised me, and I love my siblings. But those relationships didn’t happen overnight; they were built over a lifetime of experiences together.

This man, who keeps rearing his head now that I’m a little bit successful, can’t tell me he has good intentions, especially after years of shirking his responsibilities. I see his desperate attempts to connect with me as him finding a new way to transfer the responsibility for his children to me, and I won’t fall for it.

This has been troubling my family since 2024. I haven’t been able to attend any large family gatherings because everyone keeps trying to pressure me to do what I don’t want to do. I’d rather stay away and keep my peace of mind.

Here’s Your Next Read: I Hate Sex, but Men Always Think They Can Fix That

Lolu* (26) grew up with suffocatingly protective parents who controlled nearly every aspect of his life. He shares what life was like growing up with overbearing parents.

Since his family moved to America in 2024, he’s been pushing for more independence and imagining what his relationship with them will look like once he’s truly on his own.

This Lolu’s story as told to Betty:

The day I told my mother that she couldn’t dictate my life and decisions anymore, she looked genuinely confused and accused me of being disrespectful. It’s been an arduous journey freeing myself from a mother’s love that sometimes feels suffocating. But I’m glad it’s finally happening.

My parents have always been suffocatingly protective for as long as I can remember. I didn’t notice anything odd about how my younger sister and I were raised until secondary school, when I saw my mates were allowed to go out on their own.

They’ve always been obsessed with projecting a certain kind of “good image” to our extended family members and strangers, to the point that they try to control everything I do. Growing up, I had to follow a thousand rules and do a ton of chores — which by itself isn’t a bad thing — but I was hardly allowed to choose what I did with my free time. I couldn’t read novels or comics, only school books. TV, games and friends were never allowed. I did them in secret and paid dearly whenever I got caught. My dad buried himself in his work, so he wasn’t very involved in our lives, even though we lived in the same house. He supported my mum when needed, took us to school if it was his turn, paid his share of bills, but that was it. My mum enforced all the rules and most punishments, and consequently had complete access to my personal life.

As a teenager, she chose my clothes and seized my phone if she suspected wrongdoing. I grew up with lax boundaries, thinking that if someone had power over you, they could invade your privacy or do anything to you. I’m only just learning what is acceptable and what isn’t when it comes to my personal boundaries.

Because of my strict upbringing, I had few friends since I couldn’t visit them or spend time on social media. I eventually found an escape in art, drawing my emotions and expressing myself as a way to keep my mind busy. But my parents hated that, too. They discouraged me, but I continued to create in secret.

I assumed they treated me like they did because I was a child, and children had to listen to their parents. So, I spent a lot of my teenage years daydreaming about becoming an adult and taking charge of my life.

But I was wrong, it only got worse.

When I graduated from secondary school in 2018, I didn’t get to choose my desired course at the university. My mum wanted me to study engineering, so engineering it was.

I went to a private university and had little freedom there either, but I was used to it. However, I soon realised something was odd when my coursemates talked about how relaxed things were at home compared to school. They could visit their friends, and some even had sleepovers. Hearing their experiences gave me the courage to challenge my parents whenever they tried to keep me in the house. I visited friends for the first time in 2020. There was a strict curfew attached, but it was the first step in standing up for myself. Fast forward to 2024, my family emigrated to America. I was elated. America had always been touted as the free country, so I thought I’d finally get more autonomy and figure out what I wanted in life. Unfortunately, nothing changed. Every time I stated my opinion or said I wanted to do something simple like go to the gym, my mum immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. “What if a drunk driver hits you on the way to the gym? You should stay at home.” It made simple conversations unbearable because she always had to be right.

These experiences have taken a stab on my person. At 26, I still don’t know what real autonomy looks like. Sometimes I tell my friends I need my parents’ permission to do something, and they look shocked. I also don’t know my parents as individuals. To me, they’re just “mummy” and “daddy”. I’ve tried to have deeper conversations about their principles and choices, but they always dismiss me like an overly curious child. Our relationship won’t improve until they see me as a capable adult. But how can I prove that if they won’t give me the chance?

Since we moved to America, the friction has gotten worse due to my insistence on exercising free will.

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This isn’t to say I don’t love my parents. I appreciate everything they’ve done for me. I just don’t like that they don’t treat me like an adult. I have tried speaking to them calmly, but they don’t want to let go. They only back down when I raise my voice or argue bitterly. My sister said getting a job would help, but it hasn’t. We’ve remained in the same tiring cycle.

I’ve decided to focus on the future. I daydream about life a year from now, when I will have saved enough to get my own apartment. Once I move out, I’ll keep the relationship distant, only rare visits and bi-weekly calls. I don’t want anyone yelling at me for spending a free Saturday creating art. I don’t want to have to explain myself every time I step out of the house. I just want to be my own person, with my own rules and my own moral compass.

Parenting in Nigeria is hard enough with two parents doing their best. When you’re doing it alone, it’s a harder job with higher stakes. For many Nigerian women, being raised by a single mother was both a lesson in resilience and a peek into the realities of womanhood.

These women share what it was like growing up with a single mum and the lessons they learned from that experience.

“I learned to be independent” — Efe*, 25

Efe shares how her mum’s resistance to external pressure taught her how to adapt to different situations and be independent.

“My mum and my dad split up before I was born. Her family pressured her to remarry and settle with me and my older siblings, but she never did. I saw her fight against stigma, erasure and disrespect from family members and random strangers.

This isn’t to say it was easy. At 12, I learned to cook and clean while keeping up with schoolwork because my mum worked at a bank and often came home late. I feel like I grew up a bit faster than most of my friends, but now I see that independence as one of my biggest strengths. There’s no situation I can’t adapt to and thrive in, and that’s all thanks to my mum.”

“My mother showed me that hard work will take you anywhere” — Morewa*, 54

Morewa’s dad died when she was young, leaving her mum to care for six children. She shares the major lesson she learned from watching her mum tackle their new reality.

“My father died when I was seven, and his death changed everything. My mum had to raise me and my five siblings alone, and we went from being very comfortable to rationing food every day. It was tough for a while, but my mum did her best; feeding and sending six kids to school was no small feat. She started a small farm and combined it with a teaching job at a school near the house.

She worked tirelessly to make sure we had most of our needs met. She passed away when I was only 17, but her legacy of hard work and tenacity lives with me to this day. Those lessons helped me keep my head above water when my family hit a rough patch financially in 2011. I went from being a stay-at-home mum to taking on two jobs as a mobile hairdresser and sachet water supplier. It was hard, but it saved my family until my husband got back on his feet in 2016. ”

“She taught me to be resilient” — Ladi*, 29

Ladi’s mum took a risk by leaving her dad and choosing to raise her alone. She shares how her mum’s choices showed her the benefits of being resilient.

“My mum was in a physically abusive relationship with my dad for the first few years of my life. They weren’t married, but they lived together. I remember we left when I was seven. That day, my father had beaten my mum and then turned his anger on me. My mum flared up after that. She said he could do anything he wanted to her, but no one was going to maltreat her child. She packed a few clothes for us, and we left his house that night.

Things were hard for a long time after that. We squatted at her friends’ homes or with family members while she worked multiple jobs to get me through school. She eventually started a hair salon when I was 15, and that business kept our home together till I started working. Seeing her run side hustles from morning till night taught me never to be afraid of hard work, because she wasn’t. Watching her also taught me resilience and the fact that the tool you need to leave a bad situation is courage.”

“She taught me to never judge another person till I’ve walked in their shoes” — Amarachi*, 43

Amarachi watched her mum face nasty rumours and stigma because of her single-parent status. Regardless, her mum taught her to fight against prejudice and show more kindness.

“I was born outside wedlock. People — especially church members — treated my mum like trouble because she was a single parent. They constantly spread rumours about her and steered their kids away from me, but she didn’t fold under the pressure. She remained open, kind and courteous. While I was growing up, she constantly told me that if I didn’t know how another person’s shoes were pinching them, I shouldn’t judge them.

It wasn’t an easy lesson to learn because I used to be judgmental. As a teenager, I even resented her for being a single mum.. I feel bad looking back at those times because she really tried. As I’ve gotten older, I see what she meant. Life can be very volatile and crazy; you never know who you’re helping by being kind instead of writing them off because of their status or circumstances.”

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“My mum taught me to be excellent” — Daniella*, 30

Daniella shares how her mum’s lessons about giving your best in everything have shaped her life today.

“My father left when I was six. I don’t remember much about him from when we lived together. My memory of family has always been my mum, my two siblings and I.

Since I was young, one thing I remember my mum teaching us was the importance of being excellent. She rewarded us with gifts and extra cash if we did our chores really well and excelled in school. She always made a point to reward good efforts.

We had a lot of friction when I was a teen because I thought she was too strict and obsessed with results. But her insistence on excellence still helps me today. Thanks to her, I know that the best way to stand out positively is by being great at what you do, and I appreciate her for planting those seeds in me.”

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Sore* (22) grew up in a close-knit family, cherished and protected by everyone around him. But a family loss uncovered a long-buried truth that shattered everything he thought he knew about his childhood, the people he loved the most, and his place in the world. He opens up about how the truth reshaped his sense of identity and his journey toward acceptance.

This is Sore’s Story as told to Mofiyinfoluwa

I always thought I was the last-born in a family of four children — three girls and I, the only boy. I was much younger than my sisters, so it made sense that I was treated like the baby of the house. They felt more like aunties than siblings because of the age gap. Aunty Tope* was 17 years older, Aunty Ronke* was 14, and Aunty Bummi* was 13. But nothing ever struck me as odd.

People at school used to tease me about how old my parents were. My dad would have been 54 when I was born, and my mum, 41. Sometimes, I wished they’d had me earlier, but I never took it to heart. My sisters and parents spoiled me, and that was enough.

When I turned 10, all my sisters had moved out. One got married, the others were in university. They only came home during the holidays, then eventually settled into their own homes. Apart from relatives living with us to help around the house, I was the only child home.

I was raised in Akure, where my father moved the family a few years before retiring from the police force. He was a man of few words and wasn’t showy with his affection, but I never doubted how much he loved me. As a child, I’d sit on his lap while he told me stories in his calm voice. Those moments remain some of my warmest memories.

He passed away at 73 in 2023 after a long battle with his health. I was 19 and in my third year of university. ASUU was on strike, so I was at home to witness his final moments. A few weeks after his death, I went through some of his belongings. At the top of his wardrobe was a big iron box I’d never thought to touch, but I decided to open it that day.

The box contained old pictures and clothes, and while sorting through the items, I found a bundle of old letters and envelopes. One of the envelopes was dated around the year of my birth caught my attention. On the front, a note from one Mr E. read, “I’m so sorry for what happened. Please use this to take care of the baby and your family.”

I stared at it, trying to make sense of what “sorry for what happened” could mean. Curious and slightly uneasy, I took it to my mum. Her countenance changed immediately she saw the letter. She paused, then said it was probably related to a time the family had been scammed. She suggested the note came with money someone sent to support us through that difficult period. But something in her tone didn’t sit right. Her story felt thin, especially since I’d never heard it told before. Still, I didn’t see the need to press.

Two months later, during his burial, everything began to make sense.

Just before the ceremony kicked off, I overheard a conversation from inside while running errands. Our family friends were in the room, talking. One of them mentioned how surprised she was to see me listed as a son in the programme, when everyone knew I was actually the man’s grandson.

They said it didn’t feel right to keep calling me something I wasn’t.

I froze after I heard that, and it felt like time stopped for a moment. My mother, whom I just found out was my grandmother, called me from somewhere in the compound, but I couldn’t answer. I just stood there. The rest of the burial passed in a blur. My brain didn’t stop connecting the dots. With the note, age gaps and missing pregnancy photos, I didn’t need anyone to confirm it. The man I grew up calling my father was my grandfather. And if that was true, then one of my sisters was my mother.

Still, I needed answers. After the main events, I told my grandmother we needed to talk. She put it off till later. That evening, I sat her down and told her exactly what I had overheard. She didn’t answer my questions but asked where I’d heard it. Then she became defensive and started ranting about people spreading confusion.

What should have been a private conversation quickly turned into a family meeting. She called my sisters and made me repeat everything I had said. I stood before them, asking calmly for the truth. No one spoke. They just looked at me even as I screamed and begged them to tell me who my real mother was. They eventually revealed that Aunty Ronke, my middle sister, is my mother.

She was barely fourteen when her lesson teacher, a man in his 30s, impregnated her. My grandfather had him arrested, and even tried to make him take responsibility. But the man denied the pregnancy. He had no money or plan for his life, and eventually disappeared. The family had no choice but to raise me as their own. As far as they were concerned, it was the best way to protect everyone involved.

I’d always found the move from Lagos to Akure random, but I realised it could’ve been to hide what happened. My birth certificate listed my grandparents as my parents. There were no pregnancy photos, and everything about my documents and childhood memories had a consistent story. I learnt Aunty Ronke stayed with me for a while after I was born, but eventually, returned to school. She went on with her life, got married and had three other kids. Her husband never knew. Neither did his family. She was always kind to me, always checked in and sent money when she could. I visited her frequently before she moved abroad, but nothing in our dynamic hinted at something more. To me, she’d always treated me the same way my other sisters did.

After discovering the truth, I didn’t want stay in that house. I moved in with my uncle for a while. I felt stupid when I realised everyone had known. My aunts, uncles, and everyone older knew and just waited for me to discover the truth.

Aunty Ronke eventually reached out to apologise. She sent long messages and asked if I wanted to live with her. But I couldn’t understand how she expected us to move on and pretend like nothing happened. It hurt that she could return to her perfect family abroad, while I was stuck here trying to process the ruins of mine. I felt abandoned.

Everyone begged me to forgive, move on, and not cause problems. But no one cared about how I felt. I started to feel like I was a secret they wanted to erase. I even began to wonder if my grandparents raised me out of guilt because I reminded them of a mistake they couldn’t take back.

For months, I became obsessed with finding out who my father was. But no one — not even my grandma — would tell me. I eventually gave up. What would it change? The only thing that mattered was that whoever he was, he didn’t want me. He ruined lives and disappeared. That was all I needed to understand.

Even if I’d known Aunty Ronke was my mother from the beginning, it wouldn’t have changed the fact my biological father chose not to be part of my life. And as much as the people who raised me lied, they gave me the only version of family I had ever known — one where I felt loved, cared for and protected.

I’ve learned that holding on to anger or confusion will not change anything. I had a good childhood. My grandparents did everything they could to give me a stable, loving life. They’ll always be mum and dad to me, and that will never change.

I initially felt resentment toward Aunty Ronke, but over time, I stopped blaming her. At almost 15, she was a child too, and she didn’t have control over what the family chose to do. If I had grown up calling her my mum, her life might have looked different. I try not to hold that against her.

Have I forgiven them? I think so. I’m not even sure it’s my place to forgive. Aunty Ronke has never asked me to call her “mummy,” and I feel it’s for the best.

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Wura* (51) thought giving birth to Ayomide*, after years of struggling to conceive, was the miracle that would complete her life. But two decades later, she’s grappling with the reality that the same son no longer speaks to her, even though he spoils his stepmother and half-siblings with gifts.

This is Wura’s story as told to Betty:

In 1990, when I was 16, my aunt — the woman who raised me in Ife—told me I had to get married before I turned 20, or find somewhere else to live. I didn’t take her seriously at first. I was still in secondary school, so it felt like a distance problem. But when I graduated at 18, I started feeling the pressure of the deadline.

In 1992, I got a job as a waitress at a small bar in Ife; that’s where I met Alade*. He was 28 years older than me, the biggest spender at the bar, good-looking, and always generous with tips. He wasn’t interested in me at first; other curvier, older women were trying to get his attention. But I started putting more effort into my looks, makeup and flirting skills. Soon, we were seeing each other regularly outside the bar.

I kept our relationship a secret from my aunt and the bar owner because they thought I was too young for him. I later found out Alade was Muslim and already had two wives. That didn’t faze me. I was ready to become wife number three, even if it meant changing my religion.

By August 1994, Alade met my people, and we had a Nikkah wedding ceremony. I was happy about the whole situation. I met my aunt’s deadline and married a rich husband who rented my own apartment, so I didn’t have to be with his other wives.

Alade doted on me and spoiled me for the first two years of our marriage, but things changed when I couldn’t get pregnant. His other wives had a daughter each, but I was the only childless one. We visited the hospital to investigate, but the doctors said we were both healthy. My in-laws and family started mounting pressure, so I turned to mountain-top churches and prophets for help. It took four years, but I got pregnant in 1998. It was an extremely difficult pregnancy with many scares, but I had my baby boy, Ayomide*, in 1999.

Alade went all out to celebrate the birth of his first son. He showered me with gifts and even moved in with me for a while. My co-wives were green with envy, which strained my relationship with them. They’d each had another daughter during the years I waited for my miracle, so my son’s arrival sparked envy. One accused me of bewitching my husband. The other said the baby wasn’t legitimate. But Ayomide was the spitting image of his father, and Alade didn’t mind any juju as long as he had a son, so he dismissed both accusations.

Ayomide’s arrival soured my relationship with the other wives, but I didn’t care. Once Alade moved back in with them, it was just me and Ayomide in my apartment, and I fear I spoiled him silly. I never got pregnant again, so he was all I had. I disciplined him when necessary, but I treated him like an egg. Everyone else did too. The other wives weren’t allowed to mistreat him, even when he visited the main house. I didn’t mind that they hated me, as long as my son was happy and treated well.

As my husband aged, he became frail and sick. His businesses suffered mismanagement, and the income circulating in our family reduced drastically. Each wife had to start a business or get a job to cover their upkeep. I didn’t have an issue with this. I opened a small provision shop and used the profits to care for Ayomide as he grew.

In 2015, Ayomide graduated from secondary school but couldn’t get into a federal university. Things had gotten so bad financially that a private university wasn’t an option, so we agreed he would stay home for a year and write JAMB again the following year. However, 2016 was when everything went wrong.

First, Ayomide got into internet fraud. No matter how much I begged, he didn’t back down. I reported him to his dad, but even Alade couldn’t control him. This led to a lot of friction between Ayomide and me. At just 16, he started showing up with expensive clothes and gadgets. And as ashamed as I am to say it, he bought me gifts too, and I accepted them. By the next year, I had grown comfortable with his lifestyle, even though I kept it hidden from others. When it was time to register for JAMB again, Ayomide refused. He said he had no interest in school and wanted to run a business like his father. I hated the idea, but Alade supported him. He said Ayomide was becoming a man and had to choose his path. So, I kept my reservations to myself.

Later, Alade moved to Lagos to start a crop importation business. I thought that meant he was moving away from illegitimate hustles, but I was wrong. He doubled down. I had more and more fights with Ayomide. He stopped answering my calls and texts. When I brought it up during a visit to the main family house, my husband and the other wives smugly told me they spoke to Ayomide regularly.

My son and I were inseparable, so hearing he was in touch with his father and step-mothers bothered me a lot. I got his address from one of his half-sisters and paid him a surprise visit in Lagos. This was sometime in 2018.

It broke my heart that Ayomide wasn’t happy to see me. He and his friends lived in a lavish three-bedroom apartment, and they each had a car. I cried that day and begged my son to reconsider his lifestyle. He said he’d think about it and asked me to leave his house. Our relationship got much worse after that visit. He completely avoided me, moved away from the address I visited and warned his sisters not to share it with me.

I begged his dad to step in, but he said I shouldn’t force his son to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Meanwhile, Ayomide’s wealth grew, and he started showering his step-mums and half-siblings with lavish gifts. In 2019, he bought them new phones and even got a car for his dad. But my son never sent me a kobo since he moved to Lagos. He placed his older sisters and step-mothers on a monthly allowance, but never even called to ask after my well-being.

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I started praying and visiting mountaintop churches and crusades. A prophet told me Ayomide had entered a money covenant that stopped him from giving to the person he loved most. I texted Ayomide about what the prophet said. He said, “So?” I called to explain, but he didn’t pick up.

Fast forward to 2020, his dad passed away. It was a rough time for our family. Ayomide returned to Ife for the burial but stayed in the main family house, not with me. He contributed a lot of money toward the funeral, but barely looked in my direction. After the burial, he returned to Lagos and continued to ignore me. I haven’t seen or heard his voice since 2021, when we did a one-year memorial for Alade.

It feels like my heart aches every day. The worst part is that no one wants to intervene because they benefit from Ayomide’s money. I see Ayomide and his sisters hanging out on their WhatsApp statuses. He’s close to the rest of the family, but I feel like an outsider to my own child. My friends say I shouldn’t stop praying for him, but I’ve started losing hope.

I haven’t stopped reaching out to him, though. I let him know that I still pray for him every day, and I’m ready to forgive him whenever he wants to reconcile. I feel so alone. I have considered adopting another child and starting from scratch again, but I don’t know if I can afford it at this age. I just keep hoping that one day, God will touch Ayomide’s heart and bring my son back to me.

*Names have been changed to maintain anonymity

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Marriage is often seen as the reward at the end of love’s journey, but for some, it’s the beginning of a reality they didn’t prepare for.

In this story, five Nigerians reflect on the painful realisation that they may have chosen the wrong partner. They open up about the moment things started to unravel and the difficult choices they’ve made since then.

“She was only with me for my money” — Shola*, 43

Shola* thought marrying his dream woman would fix the insecurities he felt when he was broke. He learned the hard way that it wasn’t enough to sustain a marriage.

“I always knew my wife wasn’t the right person for me, but I wanted a baddie. I’d struggled with women for years — until I got my money up. So when I finally had the means, I went after the kind of women I couldn’t get before. Jen* fit that picture perfectly.

I went all out when we got married in 2019. She made all kinds of expensive wedding demands, and I took on debt just to meet them. I knew most of the expenses were unnecessary, but I told myself it was the price of marrying a high-maintenance babe.

It didn’t take long to realise she was with me for the money. At the time, I worked as a bank branch manager and ran a car dealership on the side. But after the wedding, I started dipping into my business capital to fund her lifestyle, and the business suffered. Jen ran a perfume business that never brought in any money, and when she got pregnant, she quit because it was ‘too stressful’.

Things got worse after our son turned one. I lost my job, and we had to survive on what was left of my struggling car business. That meant cutting back on many things, but Jen wasn’t having it. She became a stranger, constantly nagging and always complaining. It got so bad that I could barely stand being at home.

People started saying she was seeing other rich men. I confronted her, and she didn’t even deny it. She said I couldn’t meet her needs anymore. That was the final blow.

I eventually got tired, sold what was left of my business, relocated abroad, and picked up my life again. That was about a year ago. Jen refused to come with me, so we’ve lived apart ever since. We only speak when it’s about our son.”

“He’s the biggest enemy of my progress” — Hafsat*, 28

Hafsat* went from having a perfect long-distance relationship to being stuck in a controlling marriage in a new country. By the time she saw the red flags, she was already in too deep.

“I met Aliyu* through a family friend during Ramadan in 2022. He lived and worked in Germany and was only in Nigeria for a short while. We started talking and, maybe because we never had issues while in a long-distance relationship, I believed he was perfect.

Over time, our bond grew deeper, and we decided to give marriage a shot. The next time I saw him was just a week before our wedding in October 2023. By then, I noticed how he tried to control what I wore and would get upset when I disagreed. But I mistook it for care and thought it was cute.

After we got married and moved to Germany, I saw the real him. He was juggling school and a factory job, and he expected me to do the same immediately I arrived. Despite my hesitation, he found me a job as a bartender, and when I refused the role, he beat me.

I stayed unemployed for almost a year. Eventually, a friend helped me secure an assistant teaching job at a kindergarten. I didn’t involve him in the process. When I got the job, I thought he’d be proud I was contributing to the household. Instead, he fought me for going behind his back and said I wasn’t submissive enough.

He didn’t force me to quit, but he made it hard to keep the job. He would assign chores that delayed me in the mornings and set a strict curfew that made attending meetings outside school time impossible. It became clear to me that he wasn’t just unsupportive; he was the biggest enemy of my progress.

After just five months on the job, I was getting regular queries and knew they were close to firing me. That December, when we travelled to Nigeria for the holidays, I went straight to my family’s house and told them I wasn’t returning to Germany with him.

It caused a lot of drama, but eventually, he returned on his own. Now, I’m back home and in the process of finalising our divorce.”

“Every day feels like a tug of war between our beliefs” — Lilian*, 29

When an unexpected pregnancy pushed Lilian* into marriage, the last thing she expected was for religion to divide her home.

“My husband, Sam*, wasn’t deeply religious when we met. He was raised Christian and attended church, but his faith felt shallow. I had reservations, especially because of some of his questionable friends. But by the time we were introduced, I was already pregnant. The pressure from both families to make things right pushed us into marriage.

I welcomed our child shortly after we got married. That’s when Sam started talking about ‘returning to his roots’. I didn’t take his words seriously at first, but then he stopped attending church. He began exploring alternative religions and hosting meetings with spiritual groups at our house. I confided in his family, hoping they’d talk some sense into him. But when they couldn’t, they told me to just accept it and let him be.

Meanwhile, I was getting deeper into my Christian faith. I wanted our daughter to grow up grounded in the values I believed in. But one day, Sam said he didn’t want her to go to church anymore because he wanted her to follow his spiritual path. He even started teaching her things I didn’t agree with.

Looking back, I can’t say I didn’t see hints of this during our courtship. But I didn’t think it would escalate to this. Now, every day feels like a tug of war between our beliefs and what’s best for our child. And even though I worry about her growing up in a broken home, I’m not sure I can keep staying in one.”

“We live like housemates, not lovers” — Jay*, 46

Jay* settled out of pressure, hoping love would come later. Years down the line, he’s filled with nothing but resentment.

“Vera* and I didn’t get married because we were in love. Her aunt matchmade us, and it felt like a convenient arrangement then. I was 41, and she was in her early 30s, and we both felt the pressure to settle down. I convinced myself love would come with time, and we’d grow to care for each other. But almost five years in, it still hasn’t happened.

We struggle with intimacy. She doesn’t enjoy it, and that affects me too. It feels like a chore neither of us wants to do. I’ve brought it up several times, but she always brushes it off. She’s not open to therapy either.

Things got worse after we had kids. I started spending more time outside the house. I’d hang out with my guys, and she’d complain that I was becoming absent. One evening, I took our first son with me to a get-together. He played with the other kids while I had a few drinks. When we got home, she smelled the alcohol and confronted me. The argument escalated until she slapped me.

That slap changed everything. I realised I’d made a mistake marrying her.

Both families tried to settle things, but I couldn’t move past it. I’ve started to resent her, and I don’t know how we’ll recover from that.”

If you want to share your own story, I’d love to hear it here.

“I wish I understood I was also marrying his family” — Faiza, 31

Faiza thought love would be enough to break through the prejudice of her in-laws. But when she fell ill, their hostility exposed everything.

“My husband’s family never liked me from the outset. His mother, especially, made it clear I wasn’t welcome. And I should have taken that as a sign. I convinced myself it was because we were from different tribes, and my husband insisted it didn’t matter. He said he loved and wanted to be with me, so we married quietly in 2022 without telling his family.

They found out later, and his mother claimed she’d gone to pray about me and was told I’d bring misfortune to her son. She held onto that and treated everything I did like proof that I didn’t belong in their lives. Malik never defended me and let them treat me that way.

Things got even worse when I was diagnosed with breast cancer last year. His mother acted like her fears had come true. Malik started to change, too. He showed care, but it felt forced. I could tell he was angry at me for being sick. I became so miserable, and even wondered if they were right all along.

I moved back to my parents’ house this year for chemotherapy. That was when I truly realised how our marriage had deteriorated. Malik barely calls anymore and has only visited me once. I’ve also heard his family is pressuring him to take another wife. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he does.

It really hurts. I wish I had understood that I wasn’t just marrying him. I was marrying his family too, and they were never going to accept me.”

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When Adesuwa*(44) agreed to take in Maureen* from a struggling family, all she wanted was to help. Over time, Maureen became like a daughter. But years later, when a troubled male relative moved in, it changed everything. What started as a good deed turned into a painful experience that left her with more questions than answers.

This is Adesuwa’s story, as told to Mofiyinfoluwa

In 2015, a family friend introduced me to Maureen*, a teenage girl whose family couldn’t afford to send her to school. They were searching for a household where she could work in exchange for an education. At the time, I had two baby daughters and was struggling to juggle motherhood and my demanding job. It felt like a win-win, so I took her in.

Maureen was about 14. She’d just lost her mother, barely spoke English, and grew up in the village. I enrolled her in a private secondary school close to my daughters’, and she started from JSS1. She was cheerful, respectful, and eager to help around the house. Despite the language barrier, she adapted quickly and picked up English in no time. Within a year, she blended in completely. I grew fond of her, and over time she became like a daughter to me. I’d always felt uneasy about live-in helps because of all the horror stories I’d heard, but Maureen gave me peace of mind. Everything changed in 2018 after my husband travelled abroad for his master’s. Not long after, his sister started pushing for her 28-year-old son, Juwon*, to move in with us. I was hesitant because I knew Juwon was troublesome, and I wasn’t looking to parent another adult. But she convinced my husband that it wasn’t safe for me and the girls to stay alone. Eventually, Juwon moved in.

From the moment he entered our house, I regretted it. He lazed around all day, never helped out, and spent his nights clubbing. He called himself a club guitarist and often returned home drunk. I complained to his mum, but she kept asking me to tolerate him. In his third month, I got Juwon a part-time job at a federal ministry, hoping he’d finally stay busy. He showed up for a while but quit in less than two months.

I didn’t pay much attention to how he interacted with women — not until my six-year-old daughter picked up his phone and brought it to me to help her with a game. That’s when I stumbled on explicit chats with a girl, and that moment prompted me to be more protective of my girls. I warned my daughters to steer clear of his room. I also started taking them along to work after school so I could keep an eye on them. And to reduce the time Maureen spent at home, I also enrolled her in a tailoring apprenticeship.

Then one day, I watched Juwon walk Maureen to the gate from my room upstairs. They were holding hands. I shouted from the balcony, and they let go immediately. When I confronted them, both denied doing anything wrong. I warned Juwon and told Maureen to speak to me if she ever felt unsafe. She insisted nothing was happening.

A few weeks later, I travelled with my daughters to visit my husband for the long vacation. Maureen had to stay back because of her exams, so I asked my mum to move in and keep an eye on the house.

Within a few weeks, my mum started noticing strange things. She once caught Maureen sitting on Juwon’s lap in the living room. Another time, she woke up to pray around 3 a.m. and noticed Maureen wasn’t in her bed. When she called out, Maureen claimed she was using the downstairs toilet — right beside Juwon’s room — even though her own bathroom was upstairs. My mother grew more suspicious and paid closer attention. One afternoon, she pretended to be asleep but tiptoed to Juwon’s room and heard voices inside. When she knocked, he refused to open the door. He claimed Maureen had gone for her apprenticeship. A few hours later, Maureen appeared. When my mum threatened to call her boss, Maureen changed her story and said she’d gone to borrow a book from a friend.

That was the last straw. I called the tailoring school and discovered she rarely attended. They said she was only present maybe two or three days a week. She always said I needed her to help at home. I put the pieces together and realised she was clearly spending those missed hours frolicking with Juwon.

I told my husband, but when we brought it up with his sister, she claimed my mum was fabricating stories to get her son kicked out. I was exhausted. We decided the best course of action was to separate them. My mum left with Maureen, while Juwon remained alone in our house.

As soon as I returned to Nigeria, I went straight to my mum’s place. I wanted the truth, so I told Maureen that Juwon had confessed and accused her of seducing him. Maureen broke down and admitted they’d been in a relationship for over six months. He had pursued her, promised marriage, and convinced her they were in love. I recorded everything on my phone and shared it with my husband and Juwon’s mother.

Despite the evidence, Juwon denied everything, but agreed to return to his mother’s place. I also took Maureen for health screenings, which, thankfully, came back negative. I really thought the worst was over.

But Maureen collapsed in tears when she returned to the house and realised Juwon was gone. She locked herself in her room and refused to eat for days. I called her father to explain everything, but he pleaded with me not to send her away. I agreed to give her another chance, but the next few months were hell.

She started skipping chores and stealing —things she’d never done before. I suspected she was deliberately frustrating me to send her away. One day, I searched her room and found letters where she called me a wicked witch who had stolen her happiness.

I called her father again to come and take her home, but he refused. I also tried talking to Maureen myself. I explained that Juwon had no intentions of marrying her and I’d only acted out of concern. I even brought it our church leaders to counsel her. Still, she kept withdrawing further into herself.

Then, one morning, about four months after Juwon left, Maureen said she couldn’t go to school because her uniforms were wet. I didn’t think much of it, so I let her stay home. When I returned later that day, I found the gate key outside. Inside, the house had been looted. My gold, my boxes, my daughters’ clothes and shoes — everything was gone.

I called Juwon, but he hadn’t seen her. She didn’t own a phone, so I couldn’t reach her. I reported to the police, but deep down, I felt more worried than angry. The next day, I called her father. His tone was cold. He said Maureen had returned that night with injuries on her arms from blade cuts. She claimed I hurt her and rubbed pepper into the wounds as punishment. I was stunned.

He even sent me photos of the injuries; I couldn’t believe it. I’vee never laid a hand on her — not even once. He said she didn’t come home with any of my belongings and didn’t want her returning to my house, even if I was telling the truth. I haven’t heard from her since.

Till today, I wonder where I went wrong. Did I fail her, or expected too much from someone who was still a child in many ways? I keep replaying everything, but know I can’t find peace in how it ended. She broke my trust in a way I’ll never forget.

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Dinah* (29) had to step up financially after her dad’s income loss and eventual death worsened her family’s financial situation. In this story, she talks about turning to loans to fill the income gap. Although she’s grateful she can support her family, she also resents that her sister has it easier.

As Told To Boluwatife

As a firstborn daughter, I started subconsciously putting my two sisters’ needs ahead of my own from a young age.

At first, it was the small things, like sometimes giving them my snacks when they begged after eating theirs. It was also the occasional big things, like when I was 13 and allowed my 11-year-old sister to wear my Christmas clothes because she was upset that my dad had accidentally burnt hers.

I don’t remember my parents pressuring me to do those things. The most they did was encourage me to be a good example to my sisters. They didn’t explicitly say, “Put them first,” but I took the “be a good example” advice to mean that as well.

I started giving my sisters money when I was in uni. My youngest sister was in JSS 1, and she asked for money the most. It wasn’t serious money, though. Whenever we talked, she’d ask me to buy her something, and I’d send ₦2k or ₦3k through my mum or my second sister.

In 2020, just as I completed NYSC, my father ran into money problems. The lockdown affected his import business, and then he made a bad investment choice that wiped out his savings. My mum stepped in, but her salary as a teacher struggled to fill the gap my dad’s income loss left. We were broke.

To make matters worse, my immediate younger sister was in a private uni, and my youngest sister was just about to enter. The financial burden was a lot, and even though my parents tried their hardest to provide, I could tell they were struggling.

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My mum sold her car, and she stopped attending parties. My mum is the biggest owambe Nigerian aunty ever, and her inability to buy aso-ebi and souvenirs to attend her parties was the biggest indicator that everything wasn’t okay.

Fortunately, I got my first job almost immediately after NYSC. My ₦180k salary wasn’t huge, but it gave me some independence. I didn’t have to add to the financial burden at home; more importantly, I could support my family.

I started chipping in for expenses at home: food, gas, electricity and utility bills. Things weren’t back to normal, but we were surviving.

Then, in 2021, my dad died.

We had to deal with two different types of grief: grief from losing my dad, and grief from relatives who swooped in like vultures to reap where they didn’t sow. The main bone of contention was our house.

My dad had built it before he married my mum, and his brother (my uncle) had contributed financially to the building. My uncle even had some of the land documents, and after my dad died, he attempted to take ownership. When the wahala became too much, my mum decided to leave the house for him.

Our financial responsibilities increased from just trying to survive and pay school fees to paying rent. My mum took on extra after-school tutorials to make more money, but it wasn’t enough.

My two sisters’ private university tuition ran into millions. My immediate younger sister worked several jobs in school to support herself, but my youngest sister didn’t have that advantage. She relied on whatever she got from home.

In 2022, I took a loan for the first time to pay part of my youngest sister’s school fees. Her university allowed us to pay the tuition fees in instalments, but at that point, we were owing ₦300k, and exams were close.

My mum couldn’t find money anywhere, and out of the blue, my bank sent me an email that I was eligible for a quick loan. I took out ₦310k and repaid it in six months. But before I finished repaying that one, I took another “quick” ₦100k loan from a loan app. Why? The repayment schedule from my bank reduced my monthly income to about ₦100k, which hardly covered my transportation and living expenses.

That’s where the loan cycle started. The loans were supposed to be emergency options until my salary came, but I was drowning in a sea of interest rates and repayments. I was taking loans from one place to repay another loan. At my lowest, I was owing seven different loan apps a total of ₦800k and fielding harassment calls from their loan collectors.

Things didn’t improve even after I changed jobs in 2024 and started earning ₦300k. My mum also had to take it easy at work because of a lingering wound from a domestic accident — she has diabetes, which affected the wound healing process— so I became the de facto breadwinner.

I often feel like my youngest sister doesn’t fully appreciate the extent to which my mum and I went to secure her education. This babe called me early this year for ₦350k for final year week celebrations. She wanted to buy a dinner gown, do her hair, and take pictures. She knows I complain about loans, but somehow, she just expects me to come through for her.

She has finally graduated, and I’m glad to be free of the financial burden. However, I’m still stuck in a loan cycle. I owe two different loan apps a total of ₦408k, and I borrow from another at least once a month. I think it’s an addiction because I literally can’t do without loans. My salary doesn’t last two weeks, and I must borrow money to stay afloat.

I’ve tried to mentally calculate how I can afford to be debt-free and not have to take loans anymore, but the only way that’ll work is if I can double my income to ₦600k or ₦700k. With the level I am now, it’s not possible.

I can’t really blame anyone for my financial situation. No one forced me to take the responsibility, and I’m grateful I could support my mum and siblings. That said, I can’t help feeling some sort of resentment towards my youngest sister. She got to live a soft life and will probably never have to worry about providing for any sibling.

Why didn’t I also have the luck of coming as a lastborn? Why did my dad have to die? Did I do too much for my family? Will I ever make sense of my finances?

I’ll probably never have answers to these questions, so it’s best not to dwell on them. I just have to focus on trying to live for myself now and see what my life can be without black tax lurking in the shadows.

*Name has been changed for the sake of anonymity.

NEXT READ: I Spent ₦1.6m Serving Bridesmaid Duties 8 Times in 11 Months

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